


Warlock's Summer Vacation

by LieutenantSaavik



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: M/M, this is the worst thing i've ever written and also my favourite thing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-15
Updated: 2019-06-15
Packaged: 2020-05-12 03:00:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,910
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19220218
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LieutenantSaavik/pseuds/LieutenantSaavik
Summary: Aziraphale and Crowley go to America. They don't enjoy it much.





	Warlock's Summer Vacation

“THIS PLACE IS GREAT,” Crowley shouted. He had just crashed three cars attempting to drive on the right side of the road, and was currently in the process of crashing a fourth. Aziraphale, standing on a nearby sidewalk and practically melting from the heat, looked on miserably.

Crowley gritted his teeth, _sure_ he could do it this time, and swung the steering wheel wide. He promptly hit a tree with a resounding W H O M P H.

“Ngk,” he said, then miracled himself out of the smoking wreckage. “Ah, America,” he sighed, mildly singed. “Is it one of ours or one of yours?”

“Can’t recall,” Aziraphale replied. He looked pointedy at the remains of the car, which had been a pert, red Toyota Camry but was now a pile of metal-ish mash. “I’m not fixing that.”

“’S all good, Angel,” Crowley said casually, patting the edge of the shattered windshield. “It’ll cause a traffic jam. Bad deed of the day and all that. A couple thousand commuters into Washington C.D. will be late because of me.”

“Most commuters don’t take this side street,” Aziraphale pointed out, because he liked to be bitchy. “They take the--”

“Don’t,” said Crowley threateningly.

“--The Beltway,” Aziraphale finished smugly.

Crowley snarled. He hated the Beltway. _Everyone_ hated the Beltway.

 

A brief interlude on the nature of the Beltway.

Interstate 495, or I-495, the “Capital Beltway” or just “the Beltway,” is a freeway that encircles Washington, D.C. It is America’s answer to London’s M25--or rather, the M25 is London’s answer to the Beltway. The Beltway was completed in 1964, and is, like most things completed in 1964, absolutely terrible. Like the M25, it grinds out an endless fog of low-grade evil to pollute the metaphysical atmosphere for scores of miles around. Unlike the M25, there was no demonic influence or unholy sigils involved in its construction whatsoever. It became thoroughly and entirely evil on its own, because America is just Like That. Crowley loathed all 64 miles of the road, and all 64 miles of the road loathed him right back, because all 64 miles of the road loathed everyone. It was a mutual hate-fest. The American demons would have loved it if they could have taken credit for its construction, but credit was already taken by President Eisenhower. Alas.

 

“I’m going to climb the Washington Monument,” Crowley said.

“Crowley no,” said Aziraphale, without really hearing. Then he blinked back to reality. “You mean that tall, sharp, pointy thing in the city?”

“I mean that tall, sharp, pointy thing in the city,” Crowley confirmed. “Gonna climb it. Right,” he gestured, “Right up.”

“Or you could not do that,” Aziraphale suggested.

“Or I could not do that,” Crowley agreed.

“We could go to a library instead. How about the Library of Congress?”

“Eh,” said Crowley.

“It’s America’s oldest federal cultural institution.”

“Eh,” said Crowley.

“It’s the largest library in the _world_.”

“Eh,” said Crowley.

“It would make me happy to see it.”

“Why didn’t you say so before, Angel?” Crowley asked. “Let’s go!”

They had to call a taxi, because neither of them could drive. It took about twenty-five minutes to arrive and another twenty-five minutes to get to the library, and they really should have just taken a Lyft or an Uber, but they didn’t think of it because, in general, they don’t usually think. So taxis it was. A bright yellow one came to pick them up and take them from Arlington County into Washington, DC.

 

A brief interlude on the nature of Arlington County, a suburb just outside Washington, DC.

Because it houses Arlington National Cemetery, where legions of America’s dead soldiers have been buried since the 1800s, there are actually about twice as many dead people as living people in the area, so in the event of a zombie apocalypse, everyone was royally fucked. That’s the reason Crowley wanted to stay there. That and the fact that Arlington also houses the Pentagon, which keeps documentation of UFOs. Crowley thought he might be able to see a UFO, meet its alien inhabitant, and finagle a ride to Alpha Centauri, which was always lovely this time of year. Unfortunately, most UFOs, like most supernatural entities of angelic or demonic variety, wouldn’t be caught dead in the vicinity of America, unless they are aiming to be featured on an episode of the _X-Files_.

 

About fifteen minutes into the taxi ride, they crossed the bridge and were in DC proper. Soon after, they passed the Museum of Natural History. Crowley eyed it.

“I’m going to steal the Hope Diamond.”

“Please don’t.”

 

A brief interlude on the nature of the Hope Diamond.

Like most things in America, it’s really big, and also cursed.

 

They continued along the city roads, hitting every red light. Crowley smiled. Aziraphale didn’t. He just wanted to get to the library to See Some Books.

Instead, out the window of the car, he saw the Supreme Court. “Supreme Court? More like Supreme Jort,” Crowley remarked, and laughed at his own joke for five minutes, even though it wasn’t funny. By then they weren’t far from the Folger Shakespeare Library.

“They can’t do Shakespeare with _their_ accent,” said Aziraphale, horrified.

“We can and we will, bitch,” said the taxi driver. She was a Shakespearian actress, but it didn’t really pay the bills. Taxi driving didn’t really pay the bills either. What _would_ pay the bills is Aziraphale tipping her after their drive was finished. He tipped her massively. Crowley thought it was angelic generosity, but really Aziraphale just didn’t know how to change from pounds to dollars.

 

A brief interlude on the nature of dollars.

Some of them have the illuminati symbol on them. This is the fault of a man whose first name was “Salmon.”

 

The taxi, trundling along at a pathetically slow pace, passed the State Department, which performs one of the most important functions of the entire government: Avoiding War. Aziraphale and Crowley could get behind that. What they _couldn’t_ get behind is the architectural design of the building, because it’s ugly as horseshit, and a similar colour.

Fine, _color_.

As they passed by, Aziraphale waved to Mr. Dowling, even though the ambassador was currently at home with Warlock, who was having multiple identity crises at once because he was feeling too English to be American but had always felt too American to be English. Aziraphale and Crowley felt the same way, provided you substituted “Angelic” or “Demonic” for “American” and “Human” for “English.” It was solidarity all around.

Eventually, Aziraphale and Crowley reached their destination, where they disembarked, thanked and (over)paid the taxi driver, and stared up at the massive library building, which was somewhat of a cross between an English palace and another, slightly worse, English palace. It was, at least in Aziraphale’s opinion, gorgeous, laced with balconies, windows, columns, arches, a dome, and multiple ornate sculptures of naked and mostly-naked people. In the front was an elaborate fountain sporting a scene from some Greek myth, and at the center of the scene was a snake, which pleased Crowley greatly.

They climbed the stairs and went into the entry hall, skipping security because they could. Up on the ceiling was a mosaic of “Uriel.” Aziraphale scoffed. “They don’t even look like that,” he said in disgust, staring up at the blonde, white man.

“Come on,” said Crowley, tugging on his arm.

Aziraphale didn’t budge. He was transfixed; the entire ceiling was buttressed and packed with intricate, symmetrical mosaics, mostly geometric and floral designs that centered around the names of famous poets. “Do they have any female poets?” he asked, distressed.

“Yeah,” said Crowley, pointing one out. “Sappho.”

“Oh,” said Aziraphale, instantly cheered. “That’s all right, then. But I wish they had more.”

He allowed Crowley to pull him into the next room, the main hall, where carvings and colonnades arched and bent together, gold and green and black and white, plants and people and swans and angels, all surging upward toward a ceiling of bright blue glass. For a moment, it was breathtaking. Then they remembered they didn’t need to breathe.

Aziraphale proceeded to lead Crowley from exhibit to exhibit, and Crowley, with only minor grumbling, followed. Some tour guide was making a big deal out of the presence of a Gutenberg Bible, one of seven remaining copies in the entire world. Aziraphale rolled his eyes. There were actually eight remaining copies; he’d just hidden one of them really, really well.

“The true Shekinah is man,” Crowley read off one of walls as they went upstairs.

“Hm,” said Aziraphale. “I’d say the true Shekinah is woman.”

“Touche,” said Crowley. He looked at another inscription. “‘Ignorance is the curse of god.’ Hot take.”

They walked through an exhibit on Women’s Suffrage and then into a rotunda full of books. “Valor, courage, fortitude, achievement,” Aziraphale read off the ceiling. “Wonder what those are?”

“Alternate four horsemen?” Crowley suggested. Aziraphale smacked his arm. Then he forced himself to leave before he could steal one of the books, because he really, really wanted to.

After that, they’d been in there for an hour and had mostly seen what they wanted to see, so they left the building the way they’d come and found themselves facing “Capitol Hill,” which wasn’t even a hill because DC was built on a swamp.

In its defence, though, so was part of Rome.

“Let’s spy on Congress,” Crowley suggested, looking at the Capitol Building, where Congress met.

“You do that,” said Aziraphale.

 

A brief interlude on the nature of Congress.

Those fuckers don’t even do anything.

 

Five minutes later, Crowley stormed back from spying on Congress. “Those fuckers don’t even do anything,” he shouted.

Aziraphale nodded glumly.

“I’m going to burn their lunches.”

“Crowley,” the angel said mildly, “You can’t burn _all_ their lunches.”

“Just the Republicans, then.”

Five minutes later, Crowley stormed back from burning Congress’s lunches. “Let’s get _ourselves_ some lunch,” he said, snapping his fingers. “Somewhere around here. Picnic. My treat.”

After discussing for a few moments, they decided they’d have a picnic in Dupont Circle, because Dupont Circle is where Pride happened every year. Aziraphale liked Pride because he was gay. Crowley liked Pride because pride is one of the seven deadly sins, and also because he was gay. Then Crowley suggested they harass the president.

“Crowley,” said Aziraphale tiredly, “You can’t harass the president. He has things to do, I’m sure.”

“Pleeeeease,” Crowley whined.

So they went and harassed the president, but only mildly.

“Did you know,” Crowley said on their way back, “Someone bought the domain white-house-dot-com and made it a porn site? Imagine you’re unfortunate enough to be a citizen of this place and you have a question about your--your Selectoral College, or whatever--but you accidentally type white-house-dot-com instead of white-house-dot-gov, and suddenly, right before your eyes, like a miracle,” he spreads his hands and grins, “Adult content.”

“That’s,” said Aziraphale, struggling to find the words, “That’s--horrid, Crowley, that’s simply _horrid_. Absolutely horrid--and--”

“Hilarious?”

“Yes,” Aziraphale said, very quietly, “But mostly horrid. Is it still--there?”

“Nah, it’s a political satire website now. Oh, don’t look so _disappointed_.” He nudged Aziraphale and gestured across the street. “Take a look at the Second Division Memorial.”

 

A brief interlude on the nature of the Second Division Memorial.

It’s a flaming sword.

 

“I’m gonna mcfreakin lose it,” said Aziraphale.

They left DC very quickly after that.

**Author's Note:**

> i'm REALLY sorry guys but i absolutely had to write this. like i really just Had To. i KNOW i don't deserve rights
> 
> i don't live in DC but i know the city pretty well, so everything said about it is nice and accurate, including the white house dot com porn site thing. which is like, really bad? but also really funny. i love humans sometimes
> 
> all the "a brief interlude on the nature of" business is a writing technique i love that i copied right from [Everybody Knows but You](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19126801/chapters/45453304), an absolutely brilliant a/c fic a friend of mine wrote!


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